Writing love letters is a difficult journey.
I send thoughts out into the universe and inside my chest.
I might let someone hurt me if I love them.
What if I am not loved in return?
Love is just not that way; it comes. A face appears and it is as if you have known him in elementary school when he gave a book report, when he ran a class race and tripped and fell and when he received his degrees always thirsting to know more, understand more; do more.
I was told not to love my self. It is selfish. Think of others.
The kindnesses I show to my self reverberate throughout my being; I am able to see other people; almost in shades of unicorn colors before we ever knew there were unicorn colors.
Love is a kernel, a seed and a hug. Love is a smile, a grimace and a smirk. Love is arms wound round the neck, a kiss on the head and a lurch of the heart. Love is broader than the Wyoming skies in early springtime, it is deeper than the snows in Alaska and it is wetter than when the birds hit the flyways in spring. Love is pink, orange and periwinkle blue. Love is orangey yellow pumpkins lying by a fence row. Love is saucer dahlias in red, pinks and lemony sunshine. Love beats, it has a heart and feet. Love will retreat much like the glaciers are doing. Catching it and then it is not caught, teaching it and then it is ignorant again; and learning to love and losing the remembrance of it all as it was so painful I cried in the middle of the night and never wanted to get up again.